Dead Soon Enough: A Juniper Song Mystery by Steph Cha

What’re you up to?”
    I smiled. “I’m a private investigator.”
    “Wow!” she said. “Now that you mention it, I think I might have heard something about that. You were always interested in that stuff, weren’t you? Did you always want to do this when you grew up?”
    Her tone was suddenly a note too cheerful, and I almost winced as I registered the condescension. It disappointed me.
    “Actually I wanted to be a ballerina. Barring that, an I-banker.”
    She laughed. “Touché, Song.”
    “When’s it due?” I asked.
    “July 4, my Independence Day.”
    “That joke only works if you’re planning to sell it once it’s born. Boy or girl?”
    “We’re waiting to find out.”
    “That’s some willpower,” I said. “When’d you get married anyway?” I asked, noticing a rock on her finger the size of an almond.
    “Let’s see, we bought the house in 2013, so…” She tapped on her chin like she was thinking very hard. “It’s been three years. How about you?”
    “Widowed three times, unfortunately. Series of freak accidents.”
    She scowled. “I can’t tell when you’re joking, Song.”
    “Okay. That was a joke. Here’s the punch line—nobody loves me.”
    “That’s not true,” she said, too quick and too reproachful.
    I laughed. “I know.”
    “So what are you doing in Century City?” she asked, changing the subject abruptly.
    “Private investigation,” I said, as gently as I could.
    “Of course. Well,” she said with a smile. “I guess I’d better get my snack.”
    We hugged, and the hug felt unnatural, especially with a fetus in the way. She left and I resumed smoking.
    It bothered me that Kelly Pak felt sorry for me, and it bothered me that it bothered me. I could imagine her going home to her husband and telling him that she ran into an old classmate, one who’d made interesting life decisions. I wasn’t jealous of her—it was hard for me, even at my most self-pitying, to envy a pregnant woman of any kind—but I didn’t like for her to see me as a failure, to breathe deeply in her sense of a life well lived at my expense.
    My mind was swirling unpleasantly in this slow, useless pattern, when Chris Oganian appeared in the building lobby, walking from the elevator bank to the coffee kiosk just inside the doors. I took a long drag off my cigarette, then stubbed it out to make my way in.
    I had no good way to approach him without making it clear I’d been waiting for him to show up. I felt suddenly self-conscious, like I was about to ask him to spot me two dollars to help me get to the airport.
    I walked in and went up to him by the kiosk, where he was tapping a packet of Splenda into his coffee. I tapped his shoulder, and he flinched at my touch before turning around with a look of displeasure.
    “Hi,” I said, trying to sound reasonable and apologetic. “My name’s Juniper Song. I’m a friend of Lusig’s and Nora’s. I e-mailed you earlier?”
    He blinked sharply and nodded once. “Yes, I saw that. I’m sorry, I was planning to respond later this afternoon.”
    His demeanor was stiffly professional, and I saw that this stance worked to my advantage. I held out my hand. “Sorry for accosting you in this way,” I said. “Pleased to meet you, regardless.”
    He took it, cautious but obedient, and I knew I’d secured the interview.
    “Would you mind speaking with me for a few minutes?” I asked, before fully releasing his hand. “It’s about Nora.”
    He took a sip of coffee and pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking the time. “I can talk briefly,” he said.
    “Great. Outside?”
    We retreated to the stone planter, where I was apparently taking meetings now. I wondered what kind of clients I’d get if I put out a shingle right there.
    I sat on the edge of the planter, where he rested his coffee while he stood, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “How did you know Nora, again?” he asked.
    “Sorry,” I said. “I should clarify. I don’t know her